


Emergence

by CateAdams



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Erotica, First Time, M/M, Mind Meld, Skewed Perceptions, T'hy'la
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3796000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateAdams/pseuds/CateAdams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Spock come together, but all is not as it seems, and Jim discovers the flaws in dreamlike perfection. Sometimes, vulnerability is something to be fought for, not simply shown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emergence

 

 

_All I want is nothing more…_

 

     You guide my hands across your body; you let my touch excite your skin. My lips find yours, encouraging them to part, allowing me into your warmth. Your body is firm under mine, and, as I shudder, you do the same. I love you. _I love you_ , and the words breathe from my mouth into yours. This has been so long coming. So long, and I shift to feel the roughness of your chin over my lips as I inhale your scent. That faint hint of a beard excites me, the impossible softness of your hair, and the deliberate yet tentative pressure of your fingers on my own body. I move lower, tasting your skin, breathing you in, unable to hide my own smile.

     You arch into my touch, and I kiss your chest, fascinated by the heat of your skin and the silk of your hair, even here. I want you; I want you so much and I hope that the thought, the _feeling_ , is pouring from my mind into you through every touch, through every kiss. Your hands shift almost involuntarily to cover mine, spreading my fingers so that they are flush against your body.

     The sea breeze is warm and fragrant through the open windows, the sheets beneath us cool and crisp, and the sound of the nearby waves soothing and regular. No one else knows we’re here, and I hardly believe it myself, even now. I can barely believe that you want me; that you chose me. I can barely believe that you’re underneath me, your body naked and vulnerable, your hands seeking mine. You are so beautiful and so unique, and I look up from my study of your stomach just to see the black of your hair against the pillow, to see the greenish flush stain your cheeks. Your lips are parted just slightly, and I release you to slide my body along yours, to kiss you again.

     It’s thrilling to feel you against me, to feel your straining hardness against mine, to plunder your mouth and feel you respond. Everything in me is yours, and it is my turn to surrender as you turn us over and I feel your weight. I reach, sliding my hands slowly over your back, into your hair and then back down, letting my own legs spread, helplessly undulating against you. I throw my head back.

     “What do you want? Anything you want.” I murmur the words and my own mind is a blur of wanting, of needing.

     I feel you hesitate, your muscles steel against me, and I open my eyes as you lean back.

     “Spock?”

     Your eyes are black in the flickering candlelight, and for an instant I consider how uncharacteristic this is for both of us: my romanticism and your pliancy. I had asked and you had come without question. Had allowed this to begin without question. I had touched your hand and you had allowed me to keep touching you, allowed me to remove our clothes, allowed me to lie with you on this bed.

     You blink, and your hand comes up to ghost across my face, to slide into my hair, and your reply is barely audible and so very careful. “Jim.”

     You sound as if you are being tested and I stiffen. “You know that this isn’t a game for me.”

     Your eyes widen slightly and your hand falls away. “Jim—.”

     A unique combination of fear and earnestness causes my excitement to dissipate, and I push gently against you.

     “You can feel that, right? What you mean to me?” I scramble to sit up.

     You sit up as well, and reach out to me, stopping just before our skin makes contact, holding your hand out, hovering. “You are…I want—.” You swallow. “I will accept what you offer.”

     “I’m offering everything.” I state it quickly but simply, as calmly as I can. I’ve never said those words before to anyone, but I mean them now. I don’t move, even with your hand still hovering, waiting; I’ve said my part, and demonstrated where I want this to go, and now it’s your turn.

     Your hand drops delicately to the sheet, and we watch each other. You are thinking, and the idea that you may be considering whether I mean this as a simple seduction fills me with hurt. You are so beautiful: the greenish flush still clinging to your cheekbones, the dusting of dark hair across your torso. My chest aches with how much I want to show you my adoration without any words, with only my touch. So much of what we share is unspoken, and I had assumed this would be as well.

     I wait, and then you take a small breath and I see something change in your eyes.

     “I accept.”

     A smile flashes across my face before I can stop it, but I manage not to move, replying, “You accept? Me? Everything?” Your formal, perfunctory phrasing had been quintessentially Vulcan; perhaps a concession for what you’ve just agreed to.

     There is an instant of uncertainty in your expression, and I catch myself, realizing that, in these short moments, you have opened yourself to me, in all ways. And if I’ve ever done anything to indicate that my interest was for a lesser reason than love, I won’t repeat the mistake now.

     I reach for you, for your hand, standing and prompting you to your feet. Our arousal had been weakened by the short, serious conversation, and my instinct tells me that we need to change things somehow. Here, in this room, in this bed, I had acted based on assumptions, mistaking the transparency of my own intentions, allowing you to underestimate yourself.

     I tug at your hand and lead you out the near door, out to the private deck where a small pool shimmers in the light of two moons, overlooking the ocean. And I feel your hand tighten on mine as you hesitate. I turn back to you, and then I feel it: a mental surge that flashes into my mind. An image of me, of water, of the delicious dichotomy of coolness and heat, of the exotic color of my eyes, and how my skin would feel: wet and slick. How I would feel: hot and tight, a fantasy of your own, perhaps. I exhale and let go of your hand, walking to the edge of the pool and stepping in, letting the warm water caress my body as I move in further, the depth rising to my neck as I approach the smooth wall nearest the sea.

     I turn, and you are standing naked, the moons bathing your body in glorious silver light. Your eyes are hungry, now, and you step forward, keeping your gaze locked with mine. I stand still, waiting, watching you slide into the water and move closer to me. I had always wanted you; had always wanted this, and now that I had asked for everything, I wanted that, too.

     “Lower your shields,” I say softly.

     You stop barely a meter away, and I feel the ripples from your movement against my chin.

     “Jim.”

     “Your shields. That’s why you didn’t know how I felt.” I am smiling, confident again, and I see you blink an instant before I sense a gentle mental buzz at the edges of my mind. Nothing concrete, and if I hadn’t known better I’d have thought I was drunk.

     But I’m not, and I reach for you, and you step into my arms, letting me hold you, sliding your own hands along my back, our mouths meeting again. And the mental buzz intensifies into a low sensation of electric potential along our skin; an urgency that fuels me back to full arousal, and I lean into you, lifting my legs to wrap around your waist, supported by your strength.

     You make a choked noise and I know there’s been some loss of control as I cling to you, as you hold me easily with one arm, your other hand wandering lower, slipping between my buttocks.

     I won’t let you stop to think this time, and press myself against you, writhing obscenely, my tongue thrusting against yours, urgent. I feel the first press and slide of your finger into me, and hear you moan as you feel the slickness already there, the slight give; I prepared myself for you. I can feel your erection, and lean back wantonly, knowing that you’ll support me, reaching back for the wall and bracing myself, angling just right, just enough to see the desperate look on your face as you slowly, _slowly_ slide in.

     There is an instant where our eyes meet, and I glimpse tears in yours, and then I shift my pelvis, bringing you deeper, and you begin to move. I know that you won’t look away; I can sense it, but I close my eyes, relishing the erotic burn as you penetrate me. I lean forward again, burying my face against the curve of your throat, and you keep moving, the water churning. My cock is trapped between us, but the real stimulation comes from the gasp of my name on your lips, of the surge of your body against mine, and I cling to you, willing your mind open to me, finding the clarity to project everything I want, everything I am, everything I feel. I love you, I do, and I send that, too. And I hear you moan again, feel your hips lose their smooth rhythm, and firm fingers press to my face as our minds finally, finally, come together and now I feel tears in my own eyes from the beauty of it all—.

 

 

 

_Than to hear you knocking at my door…_

 

     “Jim?”

     “Jim, can you hear me?”

 _No!_ I fight, reaching out for the dissipating dream, for everything that had felt so, so real; everything now disappearing into a haze, revealing bright light and chill air, rough sheets and the feeling of restraints on my wrists.

     “Jim!”

     My eyes open, and there are still tears there. I feel one roll down my cheek. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out and there is cold everywhere you used to be.

     “Okay, Jim, just take it easy. Everything’s going to be fine.”

     “Bones.”

     My friend’s face comes slowly into focus, and I try to speak again, my mind still fighting to remain in that place where I had felt so happy.

     “What…what happened?”

     He licks his lips, and I see deep lines of tension in his face. “I don’t know how much you remember; Spock said you probably wouldn’t remember anything, but you’re a stubborn son of a bitch.”

     He sighs, and his eyes meet mine solidly. “You were taken by one of the rebel factions during the peace talks, right from the fucking table. They shot you up with some kind of drug and held you for about three hours.” He snorts, continuing darkly, “They were on the comm with Nyota, thinking they were all brilliant negotiators when Spock and a security team knocked down the door.”

     He smiles grimly and rubs a hand over his chin. “They were handed over to the local authorities, and you were brought back here.”

     I swallow dryly, my thoughts still hung up on his mention of you. Bones must have read my hesitation as a question in and of itself because he keeps talking.

     “That was three days ago.”

     I find my voice again, repeating, “Three days?”

     My friend sniffs, his eyes roaming over my face and glancing up at the monitor before he begins to loosen and remove my restraints. “Yeah, Jim, three days; Spock had to finish the talks while we were working on you. They’d given you something we’d never seen before.”

     “What—?”

     “It was a hallucinogen; a strong one. But the problem was that it wouldn’t just wear off. It was a nanochemobot, essentially a biochemical practical program that acted to keep you in a state of near-death until particular pathways were activated within your brain.”

     McCoy waves his hand at an approaching nurse and sets the restraints aside, reaching down to gently massage my wrists. “Fuckers were using it as a part of a cult-like ritual to identify nonbelievers, or some shit. We couldn’t figure it out; we tried everything, but you were in bad shape.”

     He sighs. “I guess the idea of you fighting for your life up here greased things over because Spock got the primary leadership to agree to all our terms in record time before he hightailed it back up here.”

     “Spock.”

     McCoy’s expression takes on its previous grim lines. “He had to meld with you, Jim. It was our last shot; you were dying. He went in deep and I thought I was going to lose both of you when he came out of it suddenly.”

     A muscle in my friend’s jaw twitches. “It was bad. He was in tears, and he couldn’t control himself. He said you were out of danger and then demanded he be allowed to go to his quarters. Your readings were miraculously improving, so I sent him off. That was, uh—,” he glances at the chrono, “—twenty minutes ago.”

     I look away, my mind crying out for you before I even realize what I’m doing. “I want…I need to see him.”

     “Spock?” Bones fusses with the biomonitor strip attached to my forehead. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea; you need to rest, and he does, too. I don’t think he slept a wink since you were taken.”

     I flinch away from my friend’s touch, and push against the bed, straining weakened muscles trying to sit up. “I want to see him now, Doctor.”

     McCoy’s expression hardens. “You’ll stay where you are and don’t even think of—.”

     “Doctor McCoy.”

     The cadence of your voice, coming from the doorway to my isolation room, reverberates through my mind and I inhale shakily. I can’t _feel_ you; I can’t feel your presence, and I take advantage of the doctor’s distraction to push myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and fighting waves of vertigo.

     “Jesus fucking Christ,” McCoy explodes, and I meet your eyes. You are in your uniform, but your eyes are rimmed with green and you look so tired.

     “Bones, give us a minute.” I can’t hide my agitation; my mind is screaming out for something, for contact, for you. I _need_ you.

     “Like hell.”

     “Doctor, please. He is my…the procedure required that—.” Your voice is strained and you don’t look away from me.

     “Required what?” McCoy asks warningly.

     “The establishment of a bond.” You still do not look away, and I cling to the memory of your body against mine, of your mind open to me.

     “Oh, fuck.” Bones looks pale. “And you couldn’t have said something earlier?”

     “We had discussed the possibility. My disclosure at the time would have affected nothing.” Your response is quiet, controlled, blank.

     “I know, but—.” My friend trails off, his hands are in fists, and I know he’s thinking of what had happened: of your loss of composure, of my unbelievable recovery. “Okay, Spock, I’ll give you a few minutes, but I’ll have my eye on the monitors. If he—,” McCoy cuts off his own sentence, biting his lip. “Just be careful.”

     He leaves, and the door shuts, and it is just the two of us, and I reach out to you like I did before, in my—in our—dreams.

     “It was real,” I insist. “You can’t say otherwise.” I still feel dizzy, and my voice is thready, and my hand is still out in front of me and it is shaking. You are so beautiful.

     “Jim, I must apologize—.”

     “No,” I say simply. “You accepted, remember? You accepted me.”

     “I do. And I will.” You take a step forward, and then another. “Always, _t’hy’la_.” You hesitate, and I stretch my hand more insistently, fear and confusion curling up my spine. I see your jaw tense and then you reach for me and our hands touch, and my confusion swells when I still can’t feel you. I lean forward weakly, desperately, and then I’m in your arms, with my face against the curve of your neck. But the familiar electricity is absent, and there is only the physical heat of you and what came before seems to fall further away.

     “I was not certain I could reach you.” Your voice is unsteady and I can feel, with the tension in your muscles, the worry that you had carried while I lay insensible. “The drug required a unique experience to release its hold on you.”

     I murmur against your skin, “It required the expression of one’s deepest desires. Am I right?”

     Your hands move over my thin medical gown, fabric separating our skin.

     “For me to presume—.”

     I shake my head, interrupting you, remembering all the times I had watched you, all the times I had fantasized about you, all the times I had wanted your hands, wanted your mouth. All the times I had touched myself, imagining you only to leave it all behind when duty began. I decide that I couldn’t have been all that subtle.

     “I think you were proceeding from a logical deduction based on available evidence.” I reach up to caress a pointed ear. “I should have told you how I felt before all this happened; I’m sorry. Please, please lower your shields. Please let me feel you; I need you so much. I love you so much.”

     You stiffen and lean back, and I reluctantly allow you to move away, keeping one hand clasped in yours, my eyes searching yours. I don’t understand. I don’t want to understand.

     “Jim, you are still experiencing effects from the drug. You must understand that your personality is still altered; your perceptions and actions are still affected.”

     I feel a flush of betrayal, of anger. “So, you’re saying that time will tell if all this is just me hopped up on an alien high.”

     And then I see it: fear and grief in your brown eyes, rapidly hidden. You tighten your fingers against mine, and then extricate your hand. “You must rest, Jim. I have our ship.”

     “And me. You’re mine. You accepted me.” I don’t think I’m whining, but I may be. I frown.

     “Yes.” I see difficult resolution in your nearly impassive expression and I feel my chest ache anew. What did you see that sent you away from me in the first place? What truth did you uncover that cracked your controls and caused you to break in front of the doctor? What is waiting for me beyond this veil of drugged euphoria?

     I swallow and nod, not trusting my voice, and lie back rigidly. I hear you leave, the door opening and closing, and then opening again as the doctor enters.

     His words are gruff. “Okay, kid. Let’s get you better.”

 

 

 

_‘Cause if I could see your face once more…_

 

     My head is clear. Clear and hard and cold, and I sit on the edge of the biobed and don’t even try to hide my scowl. Two days, and I haven’t seen you since I first woke, still half-drugged and unable to keep my hands to myself.

     Bones stands in front of me with an odd expression on his face.

     “It was for the best, you know.”

     “Oh, really?” I crack the knuckles of my right hand, feeling anxious energy over my limbs. I hate being confined, and I hate being avoided, and I can’t shake this anger at you.

     “Yeah.” He stares at me until I meet his gaze. “You should have seen yourself, Jim, you had fucking stars in your eyes. You had to come to terms with this yourself, and having him hanging around wasn’t going to help either of you.”

     The touch of your mind seems completely gone, along with the effects of the drug, and even though Bones has told me that the bond is most likely permanent, he’s also alluded to the fact that you’re shielding it as much as possible to give me a chance to figure things out. I honestly don’t know what the fuck is going to happen when I see you again. Right now all I have are blurry memories, and a shameful knowledge that I’d told you my sexual fantasies. I try to picture your face as you fucked me, to recall the scent of your arousal and the feel of your body, and everything fades, reminding me that it wasn’t real.

     I frown and slide off the bed. “I’m fine, Bones.”

     “You’re not,” he retorts bluntly. “But you’re medically cleared to go stick your foot in your mouth.”

     “I’m just going to my quarters.” I manage to find some semblance of command posture and a pale imitation of a glare.

     “Right.” Bones shakes his head and waves a hand. “Have at it. I’ll expect you back at oh-six-hundred tomorrow for a pre-shift checkup. Until then—.”

     “Stay off the bridge, yeah, got it.” I take two steps toward the door and pause. “Thanks, Bones.”

     His expression softens. “Sure, kid.” He hesitates. “Go easy on Spock, Jim. He’s been hit pretty hard by this, too.”

     I grimace and turn again to go, and am immediately enveloped in the freedom outside my room, knowing that you’re out there, somewhere; closer to me than you have ever been, but still too far to reach. The attraction between us had always been there: the kinship, the contentment with each other, the loyalty, but this, _this_ was a wholly different thing. This was something that we’d both always shied away from in the messy complexity and glaring transparency of real life.

     The walk to my cabin takes three times as long as it should, and I enter my quarters with a smile, thankful for my welcoming and enthusiastic crew, thankful for second chances that were perhaps more accurately construed as fourth or fifth lives. And it’s only as I settle into my desk chair with the weight of unaccustomed silence around me that my thoughts turn to you once more.

     I close my eyes and picture your face, your hands, and all I can see are you turning away from me, your mind closed to me. I clench my fists in frustration, and whispered words fall through my thoughts: _I’m offering everything_. Even then, in my drug-addled state, I’d recognized that I’d never said before. I’d recognized that it meant something; it meant everything. But _now_ , now that the weight of command looms and your absence over the past two days cuts into me, I wonder if I could say those words again. How would reality compare to that blissful simplicity of the dream? Was this what you saw, as you broke the meld? That everything I offered was only because of the drug? Only because you were so open and willing and I was nowhere near myself?

     We were each of us so separated from the barriers we usually hold so tightly. And would you even want to open yourself to me again? Would I allow you? I’ve always been one to mistrust vulnerability, and you’ve always been one to deliberately reject it. Was that fucking drugged dream the only place we could be that way with each other? I don’t know. _I don’t fucking know._ I don’t know how I feel, and I don’t know what I want, but I need you. I need to see you, even if just to compare what I vaguely remember with what is, here and now. I run my hands over my face and I hear a soft knock on the bathroom door.

     I freeze, and then I pull my hands away from my face. And despite my dark thoughts and defensive reluctance, I bang my knee on my desk in my haste to stand.

     “Come.” My voice echoes in the room and the door slides open and there you are.

     My eyes meet yours and a surge of emotion washes over my body, churning my stomach and sending tingling into my fingertips. The awareness of your mind fills me, and I know your barriers are down, deliberately down, and your expression contorts slightly as you must sense my mental turmoil, the slurry of my racing thoughts. This is a different vulnerability: calculated and endured, defiant of reality instead of avoiding it.

     I move toward you, just as deliberate, ignoring my instinct to stall, to indulge my anger, to strike back at you, to keep my own all-too-real weakness hidden and shielded behind fantasies and attitude. I can finally _feel_ you and what I remember of the dream is nothing next to the present spikes of roiling emotion and sharp tension. All my worries turn to dust in this chance you are giving me; I can see that you are fighting for me and I can’t believe that I ever doubted you. I can’t believe we hadn’t gotten ourselves here before. Need and lust slam into my mind and this is going to happen and I want it and I can feel that you want it and at least that fucking drug put us on the same page.

     “Jim.”

     You growl my name before our mouths crash together and it is nothing like the dream. This is raw and unhinged and I taste iron and copper and heat. I feel this in a primal, powerful way and there is nothing soft or tentative about it and it’s fucking unbelievable.

     This is _me_ , and this is _you_ , and the dream falls completely away in the rip of fabric and the way you test me and the way I fight. You are _strong_ , your eyes are fierce, and your mouth is hot, and I fucking want it. I can smell my own sweat and your intoxicating scent, and I skim my nails down your back, leaving marks, your teeth pressed into my shoulder.

     I grunt as our bodies slam into the wall, already out of our shirts and we’ve lost our boots, tossed across the room. Arousal skims along my veins along with something else, something deep-seated and pounding, something that screams out loud and lifts my soul and I pull away with a noise almost like a snarl.

     “It’s not a beach, but it’s a bed.” I unfasten my pants and shove them down, kicking them away. I say accusingly, “I’m all here and you’re still mine.”

     “Yes.”

     You pull at your own trousers, and your eyes are black and dangerous.

     I press myself against you, and we are naked together, and then I am flat on my back on the bed and you are over me, your weight on top of me, your mouth on mine, our tongues together, our skin together, and your hands slide over me, slide down my body, and I wrap my legs around your waist.

     We are moving against each other, together on the rough Fleet-issue blanket, our skin chilled in the recycled air, and the press of your finger into me makes me grunt with the sting, and I fumble awkwardly for my bedside table.

     Your eyes are wild and your hands shake as you open the lube, and I throw my head back as your fingers enter me. My body is strung tight, and I hear you gasp, and your voice sounds more ragged than I had dreamed, and the flush of green over your cheekbones is darker than I had imagined. You are fucking gorgeous, and so vividly real as three fingers thrust in and out and I clutch at you, muttering filthy things.

     You turn me over to enter me, and I yell as I feel your cock press in: large and sharply painful and so hot, and then we’re moving: you’re thrusting and I’m moving back against you, and we’re fucking and I love you. _I fucking love you_ , and my mind cries it as my body shudders and I lift my head so you can touch my face and we come together, my depleted strength sending me shivering into the blanket below me, limp and spent.

     My mind is still spinning, though, lost in you, lost in us, and I need you with everything I have, with everything I am, and I finally give in, reluctantly, falling into darkness and hoping not to dream. Who wants a fucking dream when we can have this?

 

 

 

_I could die a happy man I’m sure._

 

     “We’re not perfect,” I murmur softly into the semi-darkness of the room. “We’re not…like that drug made us out to be. But _this_ , what we are now, was there already.”

     You hum and shift under the blankets, lean warmth moving alongside my body, and I instinctively reach out to touch you, running my fingers lightly over your torso, catching the thrum of your heartbeat in your side, the silky brush of hair.

     “How did you know?”

     I hear you swallow, your mind a silver river at the edges of my thoughts. “I was, as you said, proceeding using logical deduction based on available evidence.”

     I flatten my hand on your stomach, prompting, “Such as?”

     There is a pause, and then you reach out to lightly touch warm fingers to my face, and I suddenly understand: long looks when I thought that no one noticed, hours in sickbay next to a seemingly unconscious man, evenings spent playing chess and talking and engaging in innocuous touches that happen again and again. As I had suspected, I hadn’t been subtle at all.

     But I push, remembering why we hadn’t ever taken that step, “There’s a big difference between that and this.”

     “It was enough to justify the attempt.”

     I turn to my side, peering at you in the darkness. “For you it wasn’t just an attempt; it was a sacrifice. You bonded with me without knowing if I—.”

     “It was the price of your life, _t’hy’la_ , and no sacrifice at all.”

     Your voice holds a low, gravelly quality, heavy with fatigue, and I let my hand move to caress your hair, my mind urging you to surrender again, and this time to sleep. I think I understand now what it was that had broken you, when you had melded with me. You had given up something of yourself to meet me in that place, and you had been afraid that what I had seen and experienced and seemed to love wasn’t truly yourself, but some version of you that could never exist anywhere else. I wonder if I would have been strong enough to make that leap of trust.

     As I listen to your breathing slowly fall into the peaceful regularity of sleep, I feel my body relax, feeling a sense of satisfied fulfillment that I know would have been unreachable in the dream world. For this isn’t just happiness, but fully integrated with reality: fully cognizant of it and steeped in it. Indeed, the drugged dream of us was far from perfect: the singular, simple emotions nothing like the swirl of conflicting thoughts and feeling that characterize the shifting point and counterpoint that make us who we are. The perception of romantic, painless vulnerability was compelling, but nothing like actuality, where you are my formidable friend and, now, my passionate lover, my challenge and my reward. Where _we_ are something to be fought for and cherished and not simply to be given and taken. Where complexity and truth meet, and strength is found in taking chances.

 

 

THE END

 

 

Song lyrics in italics from “All I Want” by Kodaline

 

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, and I make no money from this.

 

 


End file.
